


Called one, two, and three

by kyriacarlisle



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: Consent Play, M/M, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 21:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18199307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyriacarlisle/pseuds/kyriacarlisle
Summary: Dominic doesn't want to be seen. Will likes to watch.





	Called one, two, and three

He has been waiting long enough for the sweat to dry itching in his hair, long enough that he can once again hear the fire’s crackle over the pounding of his heart and his own breath. The stretch across his shoulder blades has begun to change: the first warning twinges of an ache that will become pain, that will consume all his attention if he stays as he is, huddled on the bed, each wrist bound to ankle, blindfolded face turned sideways to the mattress, alone, untouched. “Yell if you want to, Tory whore,” Silas had said, closing his hand hard around Dominic’s prick. “No one’s listening.” And then Silas had let go, and stepped back, and they had left him there.

From the next room, voices; the sound of dice and game pieces; once, Silas’s genial crack of laughter—Silas, warm and leisured, sitting with his friends—but Dominic is alone and sore and helpless, and he bites his lip and swallows his whining noise because he cannot call for Silas: Silas has told him so.

No one comes.

He had struggled, throwing his weight away from Jon’s hand on his biceps, succeeding only in stumbling blindly closer to Silas, to be caught by the wrist, dragged kicking and twisting away from the wrenching hold on wrist and shoulder, until the pain left him doubled over in Silas’s hold, panting, poised for a second attempt, listening warily for any betraying sound from the others. He’d caught one of them a blow; if only Silas would slacken his grip, he would fight them—he would hit, or kick, or scratch, he would pull off the blindfold and defend himself—but Silas had knocked his feet out from under him and tumbled him onto the bed, where Jon had held him down and Silas had trussed him, pushed his head down and his thighs apart, and Will had said _now there’s a lord in his place_ and god, Will, how had he forgotten: Will had been watching all this time, had said _Enjoy your evening, then, sir_ , and blown him a mocking kiss before Silas covered his eyes, must have stepped aside to avoid his reeling stagger across the bedchamber, had seen Jon slap him hard across the face when he tried to bite—

He is shivering, twisting his hands against the ropes, throat thick with tears he chokes back, but it would be a terrible relief to let the sobs escape; perhaps they have been waiting for it; perhaps the others will finish their game and go, and Silas will take pity, will come and push two fingers or three into his mouth for Dominic to cry around, will take them spit-coated and slick and stretch him open, force him to kneel there, pinned on Silas’s cock, used as he has been arranged to be used. Open-mouthed and gasping, he shifts on his knees as much as he is able, tensing around an imagined lover, no longer listening for noises from the second room. He tips off balance and nearly falls, when a voice— _Will, it’s Will, still here, Will likes to watch_ , he thinks—says, “Slut. Look at you, like a bitch in heat.”

“But his lordship can’t look, can he?” Jon says—nearby, he must have been the one to resettle Dominic with a hard shove to his hip—and his hand is splayed on Dominic’s face over the blindfold, pushing him harder into the mattress, until he thinks his neck may snap with the strain of it, “We can,” Silas says. “Have you been feeling lonely here without us? What do you say, Tory?”

Finally, Silas is touching him, hands hard on Dominic’s wrists, and Dominic finds the breath to tell him, “No! Silas, stop,” and he says, “You know, I don’t believe we will.”

“We shouldn’t have to,” Will says, “Your mewling slut disturbed our last game, and here he is to pay for it. Lads, I’d wager you can make him whine and mean it.” He’s much closer: Dom hears the sound of a glass on the bedside table, and then one of the chairs dragged next to it— _for the view_ , he realizes.

A fingernail scraping down the sole of his left foot, and laughter when the rope stops his reflexive, jerking kick. “Backgammon’s the game, then, is it?” Jon asks, Silas’s hands pushing his legs further apart, until the pain shoots through his hips and shoulders and he trembles with the strain. “Do you want me to untie you,” Silas says. “Say it.”

“Say it, and you’ll get up and dressed under all our eyes, put yourself to rights and leave here with no one but the three of us knowing that you’ve spent your evening crying for the want of a cock in your arse, unless your sulky, wanton face gives you away.” Will has the devil’s own tongue.

“No,” he says. “No, Silas, I won’t trouble you, only let me go.” 

“It’s a pretty enough face, though. Perhaps we’ll introduce you around, tell them: _here’s little Miss Dominy, come from the country and lonely for lack of friends_.” Will goes on, the fluent, filthy suggestions washing over him. He knows of them, of course, but he has never lain awake longing for the fancy-dressing, jesting games of the mollies—yet he feels the blood rising in his cheeks, sweat slicking his chest and under his arms as he imagines it: being shown as he is, or perhaps cleaned up to be despoiled again, dainty in a flower-printed muslin gown, concealing his face under a bonnet until one of the toughs knocks it askew, and crows at leaving him bare-faced before them all, the sickening fear of being discovered when one of them pushes a hand between his legs to grope at him—

“Show us how you’d serve him out, then,” Jon says, and Silas laughs. “As if you care—but it’s simple enough: face down, arse up, and no need to take care over the work; here’s a whore knows the spot once they’re screwed to it.”

All this time, he has been holding Dominic pinned open between them, and now he spits on Dominic’s hole and pushes his thumb inside even as Dom lurches violently in his attempt to escape from beneath them. “No!” he cries, but Jon slaps him again and digs his fingers into the hinge of his jaw to keep him quiet, spit running down his chin until one of them chooses to swipe it away. A disorienting sway of the mattress, the slick wet sound of hand on cock, and then someone tugs his head up by the hair—Silas, it must be Silas, to know so well the precise, twisting force to use, how it will make the muscles of his stomach burn with the effort of lifting himself—and a cock—not Silas—pushes into his mouth and he chokes and coughs around it. “You’re holding out, whore,” Will says, “I’ve heard you can make a better show of sucking than that. Has your fee gone up?” Something hits his side and bounces, rings on the floor where it lands: one of the coins they’d been playing with. “There’s more where that came from, if you’re good enough to earn it.” 

Jon pushes deeper, hands holding his head steady, and if his own hands were free, Dominic would clutch the rough wool of his breeches, would tip back his head into Jon’s grip and suck until the tears ran down his cheeks and he was fighting to pull free for a coughing, gasping breath—but instead he takes the thrusts because he cannot do otherwise, licks and sucks while Jon shouts his finish— _Ah, you fuckster!_ —and swallows the bitter-salt mouthful until Jon pulls his prick away and slaps him for trying to chase after.

“And there’s the hard work we were hoping for,” Will says, “If you were a gambler, Silas lad, you could stake that pretty mouth at our tables any time.” 

“He’s practiced enough with it,” Silas says, “but I think I’d like to hear him squeal a bit.” All the while, he’s been fucking his fingers in and out, and now he stretches Dominic wide, presses an oil-slick thumb behind his balls to hear him sob. “Jon, give him a squeeze, won’t you? No reason to be delicate about it.”

“He looks stiff enough; does he know what to do with a cunny?” Will asks.

“Hasn’t the first notion,” A hard, persistent rub that leaves him dripping onto the sheet, and Silas says, “Comes of all that fine gentleman’s schooling—rote-perfect Mary-Ann, and not a bit of practical knowledge that wasn’t written down in Greek first. Did you want to teach him?”

“I haven’t the patience for beginners.”

“Fair,” Silas says, “but here’s a sport worth seeing.” Something harder slides into him, large enough that Dominic cries out at the stretch of it, and again when the narrow stem of the plug seats itself. Silas toys with it, rubbing around his oil-slick arsehole, pinching his flank when he flinches and then moving him so that he straddles Silas’s thigh and the device presses hard inside him. “Look up, Tory,” he says, “Will’s not here to watch you hide your face.” Dom moans, pleading for release from the slow, tormenting feeling of Silas’s fingers playing with his nipples, pleading for more of the merciless grip of Jon’s hand on his prick.

“I’ve done with all fours for the moment, and we’ve another game to finish,” Jon says at last. With a vicious twisting pull—Dominic yells; he cannot help it—he lets go to wipe his hand clean on Dom’s stomach.

“He’s a decent enough fuck, though, for gentry,” Will says, “Silas, keep him ready for us, won’t you?” A grunt of agreement; Silas shifts him forward, and then he is empty and aching with it.

Jon’s quick hands untie one wrist and Silas the other, rubbing harsh and deep at his shoulders and turning him to lie curled on his side, still hard and shuddering. The blindfold is a mercy now; he will not have to know when they are watching him. “Silas, are you—” he asks. A blanket drops heavily over him and he pulls it close under his chin with aching fingers, welcoming the plush warmth on sweat-chilled and over-sensitive skin.

Silas sits, the bed dipping under his weight: kiss on his temple, hand heavy on his neck, and the nails digging in. “Stay, lovely,” Silas says. “Stay. You’ll know when I want you again.”


End file.
